Murder at the Movies (10 page)

“Looks like they're still up,” Jake said. He joined Wan Ho on the sidewalk.

They waited while Tretheway planted both feet in the space between the car and the curb and pulled himself out of the sunken leather passenger seat.

“Should we go around to the back?” Wan Ho asked.

“Better go to the front door,” Tretheway said. “Don't want to alarm the Coombeses.”

Jake looked around at the other, mostly darkened, homes. “Or the neighbours,” he said.

The three padded up the wet flagstone walk. Tretheway reached for the door. His outstretched arm was inches from the Coombes's ornate, solid brass doorknocker, a replica of an RFYLI hat badge, when an unbelievably loud crash of breaking glass reverberated around the house.

“What the hell?”

“Where'd that come from?” Jake asked.

“Don't know,” Wan Ho said.

A high, piercing, hair-raising scream followed a split second later.

“That's from inside.” Tretheway banged the doorknocker. “Police!”

Another scream erupted.

Tretheway tried the door. It didn't open. “Damn!” His 275 pounds lunged at the thick oaken barrier. The Yale lock tore from the inside frame as the door banged open. A third scream, just as loud as the first two,
pinpointed the source. Tretheway led the charge across the elegant foyer, past the curving staircase and through the kitchen to burst awkwardly into a sunken family room that stretched across the rear of the house. Mrs Coombes stood, hands on cheeks, in front of a shattered picture window. Shards of glass littered the floor. In the centre of a deep, hand-carved oriental carpet, highlighted eerily by a chandelier now swinging in the wind from the open window, lay the object hurled through the glass minutes before; a
Thuggee
pickaxe.

“Police,” Tretheway said again. He fumbled for his badge, then realized it was in his uniform at home.

“Jake,” he said.

Jake pushed his hands into his own pockets. He shook his head.

Mrs Coombes prepared for a fourth scream.

Wan Ho quickly held out his badge. “Sergeant Wan Ho, Ma'am.” He pointed to Tretheway and Jake. “Inspector Tretheway and Constable Small. FYPD.”

“They don't look like policemen,” Mrs Coombes said.

“I'm sorry, Mrs Coombes,” Tretheway said. “But this is an emergency.” He pointed to the pickaxe. “I assume that was thrown through the window?”

Mrs Coombes frowned suspiciously but nodded.

“Did you see who threw it?” Tretheway asked.

“Yes I did,” Mrs Coombes said, recovering. “An Indian.”

“Pardon?”

“An East Indian. Right out of Rudyard Kipling. Wearing a white sheet and a, you know,” she swirled a finger around her head, “a turban. Like Sabu.”

“You're sure?” Tretheway questioned.

“Yes. He just stood there. Beside the hole in the ground.” She paused for a moment. “Almost as if he wanted me to see him.”

“Sergeant,” Tretheway ordered. “You stay with Mrs Coombes.”

“But…” Wan Ho began.

“Let's go,” Tretheway said to Jake. He started for the side door. Jake followed looking back helplessly at Wan Ho.

“Be careful of the creek,” Mrs Coombes shouted after them.”

Outside the wet darkness closed around them.

“The flashlight's in the car,” Jake said.

“No time.” Tretheway jogged through the backyard, skirting the barely discernible hole with the neat pile and sod still beside it, to the edge of the hallow gorge now in deep shadow.

Jake caught up. “There's the golf course.” He pointed across the gorge to where what light there was showed a relatively flat, but rolling, cultivated landscape. No figures could be seen.

“He must be down there somewhere.” Tretheway started rashly down the steep, uneven incline through misshapen rocks and long wild grass. Jake took a more lateral, safer descent.

“Damn.” Tretheway's curse was easily heard over the gurgling spring run-off.

“What's the matter?” Jake shouted.

“Nothing.” Tretheway tried to remember the last time he got a soaker.

“There's some flat stones down here,” Jake shouted. “I think we can get over the creek.”

“Forget it,” Tretheway shouted.

“What?” Jake scrambled back. Tretheway leaned against a tree pouring creek water from his boot onto the ground.

“He's gone,” Tretheway said quietly. “He's made his point. Left the
Thuggee
axe. Made sure Mrs Coombes saw him.”

“You mean he got away?” Jake asked.

Tretheway nodded. “I just wonder.”

“Hm?”

“Where do you suppose Mr Coombes is?”

“The Bugle-Major?”

Tretheway nodded. “It didn't look like he was in the house.”

Jake's neck went prickly. “No, it didn't.”

“And why do you suppose our Indian friend was standing beside the alleged grave?”

Jake didn't answer.

“We'd better have a look.”

“You're not thinking…”

“Now we need the flashlight,” Tretheway interrupted.

Jake ran to the car. By the time he got back to the grave, Tretheway was already there, bent over, hands leaning on his muscular thighs, staring into the dark hole. The swirling mist verged on rain.

“There's something there,” Tretheway said.

Jake switched on the flashlight. Bugle-Major Coombes lay on his back, arms neatly folded over his midsection. The beam of light picked out the brilliant scarlet and gold of the Bugler's braid across his chest. Large drops of moisture from the trees splashed onto his face, washing away some of the token clay clods thrown onto the grave. The small tight smile remained.

“Gawd.” Jake switched the light off.

Two cruisers, an unmarked car with detectives, a
FY Expo
reporter with photographer and Doc Nooner, all appeared shortly after Tretheway's call to Central. Chief Constable Horace Zulp arrived last. His sirens awoke the residents who had managed to sleep through the first part of the investigation.

“Strangled,” Doc Nooner said to Zulp. “Some sort of garrote. Wire, rope, cloth.”

Tretheway and Wan Ho stood in the warm dryness of the Coombes's family room within earshot of Zulp. Jake positioned himself behind them. Relevant activity hummed in the background. One neighbour made coffee. Another comforted Mrs Coombes in the adjacent living room. Detectives bustled. Mud spots showed on everyone's clothing, evidence of graveside examinations, especially Doc Nooner's.

“And not too long ago,” the doctor concluded.

“I'd say around midnight.”

Zulp stared at Tretheway. “Isn't that when you got here?” His deep, imperious voice took over the room.

“Yes sir,” Tretheway answered.

Chief Zulp lapsed into one of his meaningful not-to-be-interrupted silences. He bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind him. His lower lip pushed in and out thoughtfully. When in doubt, Zulp went by the book. But when flushed with confidence, he went by intuition, usually wrong. He spoke in short, ungrammatical phrases.

“Did you see him?” Zulp asked.

“Sir?”

“The murderer. Perpetrator.” Zulp shook his heavy jowls impatiently. “The Indian.”

“No, sir,” Tretheway answered. “Just missed him.”

“But you gave pursuit?”

“Yes, sir.”

Zulp pulled at his bulbous nose. “Why?”

Tretheway looked puzzled. “To try and catch him.”

“No. No.” Zulp's jowls shook again. “Why are you here?”

Tretheway was always caught off guard by the Chief's unpredictable, rabbit-like, train-of-thought jumps.

“Was there a traffic problem?” Zulp pressed.

“No, sir.”

“Well?”

“It was a movie.”

“Eh?”

“
Gunga Din
.”

Another meaningful silence followed. Zulp's forehead creased as he checked the room. Activity still buzzed around them. Doc Nooner excused himself silently to accompany the Bugle-Major downtown. A flashbulb popped outside. Zulp noticed that no one else in his immediate group looked confused. He lowered his voice. “Perhaps you should explain.”

For the next few moments Tretheway, with the help of Jake and Wan Ho, filled in the chief as best he could. He started with
Gunga Din,
then rationalized his conclusions with
Flying Deuces
and touched on the combination of
Only Angels Have Wings
and the Dundurn aviary vandalism. The Military Museum burglary came briefly into the discussion. At the end of his explanation, Tretheway sensed that Zulp's eyes had glazed over about halfway through. He waited. Eventually Zulp spoke.

“You're telling me that the killer of Bugle-Major Coombes was inspired by a movie?”

Tretheway nodded.

“
Gunga Din
?” Zulp said.

Tretheway nodded again.

“And it happened before. Twice. With Laurel and Hardy. And the escaped bird.”

“Condor,” Tretheway corrected.

“Do you know why someone is doing this?”

Tretheway had to shake his head.

“Horse with a hat. Stolen bird. Bhisti bugler. All with no motive.” Zulp's lower lip went into action again. “You know what I think? You live in the movies. Fantasy land. Celluloid city. Tretheway, you've got to get down to earth. Reality.” His eyes bulged. “Steel-making. Garbage. '39 Plymouths. Traffic jams. That's reality.”

“But what about the grave?” Tretheway argued. “And the pickaxe? The garroting? A lot of coincidence there.”

“That's the first thing you've said that holds water.”

“Sir?”

“Coincidence.” Zulp started bobbing again. “As simple as that.”

“But…”

“Did it ever cross your mind that the killer really is from India? What did you call him? A
Thuggee
? That the Bugle-Major was involved in some cult? Mystery of the East?” He unclasped his hands long enough to wag a finger at Tretheway. “Use your imagination. But keep both feet on the ground. Don't be swayed by some Rudyard Kipling fairy tale.”

Tretheway's large abdomen heaved quietly.

“So starting tomorrow,” Zulp continued, “a proper investigation. Leadership. Sanity returns. Back to the real world.” He glared at Tretheway. “You. Back to traffic.” His eyes flitted to Jake and came to rest on Wan Ho. “And first thing in the morning, Sergeant, round up all the Indians.”

F
or the next week Tretheway and Jake sat by and watched as Zulp directed his whirlwind investigation. One of the unearthed facts showed that Bugle-Major Coombes had indeed served in India for about six months during WWI, albeit in the wrong theatre for
Thuggee
activity. Zulp still took this as confirmation of his theory. The detectives, including Wan Ho, did dutifully round up all the East Indians in Fort York. There were seven. They ranged from an FYU professor of Eastern Philosophy and History to an incompetent fakir abandoned by a travelling carnival. By Friday it had been proven conclusively that, because of age, religion, caste, district or availability, not one of them came close to the target. Undaunted, Zulp merely assumed the perpetrator had escaped. He saw that
descriptive bulletins were sent out to brother police departments in Southern Ontario, Quebec, the Maritimes and several neighbouring states in the U.S. “Now we'll see what the net brings in,” he was overheard to say.

As ordered, Tretheway went back to the traffic business. He and Jake also went back to the movies.

The month of May was no slacker in the variety of entertaining films.
Young Mr. Lincoln, Prison Farm, Out West With the Hardys, Confessions of a Nazi Spy, Topper Takes a Trip, Orphans of the Street
(“alone in the world with his dog”) and
Treasure Island
flickered across the West End's silver screen. Tretheway passed on
Women Against Women, Annabella
(“it's the season for romance”),
Three Loves for Nancy
and
Bridal Suite
on the strength of their titles. Wan Ho joined them for
The Saint Strikes Back, The Lady Vanishes
and
Bulldog Drummond's Secret Police
. Addie chose to view Bette Davis in
Dark Victory
and
Three Smart Girls Grow Up
. Miles Terminus and Doc Nooner at different times took in about half a dozen films, Bartholemew Gum saw close to half while Jake, as usual, didn't miss a flick.

Early in the month, a Tuesday, Tretheway and Jake, accompanied this time by Gum and Terminus, entered the world of desert warfare, brotherly devotion, white sapphires, beautiful gestures, Viking funerals and the French Foreign Legion. They saw
Beau Geste
. In a powerful opening scene, a relief column of Legionnaires marching across the Sahara halt a short distance from a strangely quiet Fort Linderneuf. An officer with a trumpeter leaves his troops to investigate. They circle the fort and find at each crenellation a lifeless Legionnaire staring glassily back at them, his long rifle
pointing rigidly toward the sandswept horizon. The trumpeter scales the wall and drops inside. He never returns. The mystery deepens.